


Champerslingus

by HawthorneWhisperer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawthorneWhisperer/pseuds/HawthorneWhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Champerslingus: cunnilingus that somehow involves champagne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Champerslingus

Clarke wasn’t usually a hotel bar kind of girl.  She also wasn’t usually a gin and tonic sort of girl, preferring a glass of cabernet alone in her apartment after a grueling shift.  But today wasn’t a usual sort of day and the only wine behind the hotel bar was a house red and Clarke has  _standards,_  dammit.

She also needed a drink because between driving four hours outside of DC, the consult she’d been called in to do, and dealing with Wells all day, she was exhausted.  It was her own damn fault too, because when Wells had called and pleaded his case, begging her to come out to the piddly little town he’d agreed to do his pediatric residency in and look at one of his patients, she could have said no.  She could have recommended someone else, someone closer, but she didn’t.  Clarke was a sucker where injured kids were concerned and Wells was her oldest friend, no matter how strained their friendship had become.

So she’d packed up a bag and headed out, battling the traffic until suburbs and strip malls gave way to rolling hills and dense, leafy forests.  Clarke understood why Wells had applied for residencies in small towns—it suited him far better than the bustle and noise of the city.  It was a relief for her too, that he’d taken a position so far away.  This way she didn’t feel like she had to talk to him or see him every week, because once your childhood best friend announces that he’s in love with you and you have to tell him you’ve never felt that for him, keeping up the appearances of a normal friendship takes considerably more effort.

To his credit, Wells had never guilt tripped her about it.  But after his confession and Clarke’s subsequent rejection, something shifted.  Clarke felt awkward around him and despite Wells’ best efforts she could tell he was hurt.  Once he took the residency out in the boonies and their interactions were limited to a few family get togethers a year it got easier, but today had been difficult.

Difficult because even though Wells had moved on, working with him only emphasized what they’d lost.  And the consult he’d begged her to come out for—a little girl with a crushed leg, courtesy of a drunk driver—had been difficult too.  Clarke was one of a handful of orthopedic surgeons in the country willing to try a risky procedure that could save her leg, but the girl was a borderline candidate at best.  If Clarke was wrong, she could put the girl through a painful surgery only to lose her leg a week later.  But Wells—optimistic, kind-hearted Wells—convinced Clarke to give it a shot. 

Which was why Clarke was only going to have one gin and tonic, even though she really just wanted to get drunk. The surgery was scheduled for noon tomorrow and Clarke couldn’t afford to be hungover.  She sighed and swirled her glass, listening to the soft clink of ice instead of the smooth jazz playing over the speakers.

A man with dark, unruly hair took the sea next to her and ordered a glass of scotch.  He looked about as worn out as she felt, his top buttons undone and his tie askew.  “Rough day?” she asked, because that’s the sort of small talk that was expected in bars, right?

 

He snorted.  “You could say that.”  The man looked at her and Clarke found herself trapped in a pair of dark brown eyes, half a second from drowning.  He seemed to size her up and decide on something.  “My baby sister is getting married tomorrow,” he informed her.

“I take it you don’t approve?”

He frowned.  “I do and I don’t.  It’s complicated.” 

“How so?”  Normally, Clarke would let the conversation die.  She wasn’t unfriendly, just not very outgoing.  But something about this man had her interested.  (Okay, maybe it was the line of his jaw and the taut muscles she could make out under his shirt.  She was a surgeon, not a robot.)

He took a sip of his scotch and started to explain.

***

Clarke was on her way back up to her room the next night when the unmistakable sound of a wedding DJ caught her attention.  It was stupid—and totally against what she assumed were the rules of a one night stand–but Bellamy was under her skin already, so she headed towards the open ballroom doors.  She’d sketched him from memory right after he left that morning, needing to get the rise of his cheekbones and the dip in his chin down on paper before her memory faded.  Clarke hadn’t drawn in years but Bellamy made it impossible  _not_  to want to draw again.  There was so much more of him she wanted to capture, like the small tattoo on his wrist.  She’d pointed it out after he whined, “He has _tattoos_ ,” about his sister’s fiancé.

“You have a tattoo,” Clarke noted drily and Bellamy frowned at her.

“Exactly.   _I_ have a tattoo.   _I_  am an idiot.  Octavia could do better.”  By that point in the conversation Clarke had discovered that Bellamy had a habit of downplaying his own accomplishments (raising Octavia after their mother died when he was only nineteen, still managing to finish college and make it into the FBI Academy at Quantico, becoming an FBI agent before age thirty) so she figured chances were good Octavia’s fiancé wasn’t quite the irresponsible reprobate Bellamy seemed to think he was. 

Clarke looked around and saw quite a few tattoos but no one she recognized.  She was about to go back to her room when someone caught her eye.  Bellamy was walking towards her, swaying just slightly, with an open bottle of champagne in his left hand.  “Clarke!” he called with a big, stupid grin.  “You’re here!”

Clarke fought back a smile.  “Looks like things turned out okay, huh?” she teased. 

Bellamy leaned against the door jamb and took a pull from the bottle.  “They did,” he agreed reluctantly.  “O and Lincoln left an hour ago.  It was weird to watch her get married, but nice.  I guess.  It’s a shame she’s not here—she’d love to meet you.  O’s nothing like me.  She likes people,” he said and offered her the champagne.

Clarke could never resist champagne.  Never.  And she did feel a little like celebrating, since even though the surgery had taken longer than anticipated and the little girl would probably always have a limp, Clarke had managed to save her leg.  Wells had been so grateful he hugged her and it had felt good—it felt like before, like maybe she could finally have her friend back.  She’d missed Wells the past few years so if nothing else, this trip had been worth it for that alone.

For that and for the man standing in front of her, watching her chug champagne straight from the bottle with a dark look in his eyes.  She knew that look already—she’d seen it the night before.  “Want to get out of here?”  Bellamy asked and Clarke nodded as she took the champagne bottle from her lips.

Bellamy brought the champagne with them as they rode the elevator up to Clarke’s room.  His arm was slung casually over her shoulders like it belonged there and she fought the urge to lean into him, to curl into him until there was no more space left between them.  They reached her room and Clarke dithered for a moment—her sensible grey slacks were biting into her waist and the underwire of her bra was digging into her armpit and the thought of staying in them for another moment made her want to scream.  She wanted to change, but that seemed awkward.  Sure, Bellamy had seen her naked (several ways, actually: naked and against a wall the first time, naked and bent over in front of him the second), but this felt different.  “Is it all right if I change?” she asked, cursing her bluntness for rearing its ugly head at the last second.

“Yeah, no problem,” Bellamy agreed and headed straight for the balcony.  He kept his back to her, giving her a measure of privacy that she was secretly grateful for even though again, he’d already seen everything she had to offer.  Clarke threw off her uncomfortable work clothes and pulled on a pair of old soccer shorts and a sweatshirt that had a habit of sliding off her shoulder and joined him on the balcony.

Bellamy was sprawled in one of the chairs, staring up at the sky.  “You can see a lot more stars here,” he observed. 

“You can,” she agreed, sitting down in the chair next to him.  Clarke had a tendency to sit with her legs spread like a jackass on the subway and her knee bumped his, her bare skin brushing against the soft fabric of his pants.  He was wearing a tux but like the night before he’d shed the jacket and the tie was undone around his neck.  He passed her the bottle and they began to talk, just like the night before.

Clarke liked talking to Bellamy almost as much as she liked fucking him.  Clarke wasn’t the easiest person to get along with—hence Wells being one of her only friends—but it wasn’t because she was unkind.  She was just blunt—a little too forward, a little too honest.  But Bellamy didn’t seem to mind.  In fact, he seemed to like it, reinforced by the way he leaned over to press a kiss to her lips when they were halfway through the bottle and then kept talking like nothing happened.

Champagne always went straight to Clarke’s head, making her feel like she was made of fizzy bubbles herself.  She giggled—Clarke almost  _never_  giggled—as she took a sip and tipped the bottle back too far.  Champagne poured out, splashing her shirt and dripping all over her legs.  Clarke made a disappointed noise and swatted at her sweatshirt.

“Woops—careful, princess,” Bellamy teased.  She wasn’t sure when he’d started calling her that, but she liked it.  Bellamy leaned over her knee and slurped the pooled champagne off, smiling at her squeal.  “Can’t waste it,” he explained, his lips tickling her thigh.

The air around them thickened and Clarke stopped giggling.  Bellamy slid off his chair and knelt in front of her, bringing his lips up to hers and kissing her deeply.  His fingers curled into the waistband of her shorts and underwear.  Clarke lifted her hips and he slid them down, leaving them in a pile on the concrete floor.  Bellamy sat back, returning his mouth to her legs, and whispered kisses up one thigh and down the other.

Clarke squirmed, trying in vain to bring her center closer to his mouth.  The champagne on her skin was sticky and the air was the odd mixture of cool and humid that only happens during a summer night in Virginia, but her blood was on fire.  She speared her fingers through his hair and  guided him back to where she desperately needed him, swallowing her moan when he finally,  _finally_  spread her folds and pressed his tongue against her clit.

Bellamy worked quickly and diligently, alternating between teasing her clit and lapping at her entrance, driving Clarke to the brink over and over again.  Clarke tightened her grip on Bellamy’s hair as the coil of heat inside of her unwound suddenly and her back arched off the chair, her thighs trembling with her release.

Bellamy sat back and reached for the champagne once again, washing her down with a short swallow.  “That’s good champagne,” Clarke mused, fighting to return her breathing to normal.

Bellamy shrugged and leaned forward to kiss her gently.  “It’s all right.  You taste better,” he whispered.

Clarke mentally did the math and wondered if the drive from Georgetown to Quantico was worth it.

As long as Bellamy kept looking at her like that, it probably was.

**Author's Note:**

> For misshoneywheeler, inventor of the term and all-around fantastic lady.


End file.
